


After All That's Been Said and Done

by imogenbynight



Series: Odds and Ends [5]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: #THINMAN coda, 9.15 coda, M/M, love song dedications oh god, what am I doing with my life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-06
Updated: 2014-03-06
Packaged: 2018-01-14 18:47:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,869
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1276969
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imogenbynight/pseuds/imogenbynight





	After All That's Been Said and Done

The seat beside him is empty, and the space feels immense.

It's been a few hours since he saw Sam and Harry disappearing in the rearview. He'd figured they'd drop the guy at a bus stop and start heading back to Kansas, but Sam insisted on making sure Harry got to his cousin's place without any trouble. Dean would bet any money that his brother just didn't want to spend twenty-something hours in the car with him.

“The guy's been through some crap today. He shouldn't be on his own,” Sam had said, and Dean didn't buy it for a moment. He'd nodded though, helped scope out a parking lot for a decent car and waved goodbye.

Neither Sam nor Harry had waved back.

Now, it's just after eleven, and he's a half hour or so into Idaho. He follows the I-90 until he sees a sign for Coeur d'Alene River and takes the next exit.

He's fresh out of cash, and if he has to sleep in the car he'd rather do it someplace where there's moving water and trees to keep him company.

The road clings to the riverbank, and the smell of damp earth filters in through the air vents.

Since leaving the interstate he's been in-between radio stations, static and half-caught fragments of songs converging into a buzz of white noise; now, as he slows to a stop at a picnic spot by the river, it crackles and hums and becomes music again.

It's the tail end of[a Styx song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uBi61pgDUP8), and he turns up the volume, leaving it on when he cuts the engine, and digs through cooler in the trunk. There's a half-finished turkey sandwich and a couple of beers inside, and he cracks one open, making his way over to the lone picnic table. When the song ends, a smooth-voiced DJ announces; _You're listening to Love Song Dedications_ , and Dean pulls a face before he remembers with a pang that there's nobody there to fool.

While he finishes off the sandwich, he listens to the lovesick hearts of Idaho as they wax poetic about their partners. A few teenagers confess their undying love for people they've been dating for a week, and Dean doesn't know if he wants to laugh at them for their boldness or cry because he's never allowed himself to be so reckless with his heart. He envies them. He hates that he envies them, but he does.

He's been in love for three years. Has known it for at least two. He wonders what it would be like to just blurt it out like these kids do. He might have faced the devil without breaking a sweat, but the thought of putting himself on the line like that makes his stomach clench and his palms clammy.

He scrunches up the sandwich wrapper, tossing it into the trash can, and lays back on the table top to look at the stars through the fog of his breath. It's cold, but he relishes the chill, lets it wrap around him as he stares upward, forces thoughts of his loneliness out of his head. The universe is endless, he reasons, so how could he be lonely?

Despite his best efforts, though, he still thinks of all the spaces in his life. Of the empty passenger seat; of the half of his bed that he seems unable to sleep on. It's stupid, and it's pointless, but he wants to be wanted. He's been needed and he's been loved but he's sure he's never been wanted, not really. _Two out of three ain't bad_ , he thinks, and snorts out a laugh.

It's a pitiful sound, and he feels his heart in his chest like a steel drum, rusted. Rusted full of holes and hollow. There are more holes, more gaps of decay than substance, he's sure of it; he's just a hollow drum and with everyone he loses that drum erodes a little more.

Roughly, he rubs his hand over his eyes and downs the rest of his beer, tossing the bottle away and pulling the cap from the second one. He turns the radio up louder. Sings along until the words of the music take all of his attention, all of his focus.

It's almost fifteen minutes later, as the last few seconds of[Every Breath You Take](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OMOGaugKpzs&feature=kp)— _which is not a love song unless you're a stalker_ , Dean thinks with a shudder—fade out, that the DJ announces another caller.

“ _And we have Cas on the line_ ,” he says, and Dean sits up so fast the half-empty beer gets knocked off the table and shatters on the ground.

“ _Hello again_ ,” comes a voice Dean hasn't heard in close to two months, and his throat closes up.

“ _Tell me you have good news this time_ ,” the DJ says, and Dean climbs to his feet, moving quickly toward the Impala's open door.

“ _No,_ ” Cas says, “ _no good news. Honestly, I haven't really been expecting a call, but I've still wanted one. It's been a long time since we saw one another._ ”

Slipping into the drivers seat, Dean closes the door and stares at the radio dial like he can intimidate it into giving him answers. Because Cas is talking to a radio DJ—and not for the first time, apparently—about some mystery person.

“ _Sorry to hear that,_ ” the DJ says, voice loaded with the same amount of sympathy he'd afforded a woman calling to dedicate a song to her recently deceased husband, before switching into story mode, “ _for any listeners who haven't been following the show the last couple of weeks, Cas has called in a few times about a lost love._ ”

“ _I don't know if I'd call him a lost love,_ ” Cas says, and Dean can picture him, squinting into the middle distance. His mental image shows the old coat, the old suit, and he adjusts it, trying to picture what he might look like now. It doesn't register that Cas said him until he keeps talking, and Dean sucks in a breath through his nose, staring harder at the dial.

“ _Lost love implies that he was mine to lose. He wasn't. He never..._ ”

“ _What would you call him, then?_ ”

“ _I just call him Dean._ ”

Dean's mouth goes dry and his eyes prickle, and he opens his mouth as if to protest, to deny that he heard what he heard, though nobody would hear him, but the DJ speaks again and _it's real_ , he thinks, _this is real._

“ _Do you think Dean might be listening tonight?_ ”

“ _No,_ ” Cas laughs. It sounds as miserable as Dean's own laughter had before, and he wants to reach out, wants to feel warm skin beneath his palm and make the broken smile he's sure is on Cas's face turn into a true one, “ _I sincerely doubt it. I just..._ ”

“ _Wanted to send it out into the universe, right?_ ”

“ _Something like that, yes._ ”

“ _Well, we'll play your song, but first is there anything you'd like to say—just in case he's tuned in?_ ”

Cas clears his throat.

“ _I'd... just that I lo_ —” Cas cuts himself off, and Dean's heart clenches, “ _I miss him. I miss him a great deal. And that I think of him endlessly._ ”

The[song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wEwNcnklcsk)starts playing, but Dean barely hears it. He's too busy fumbling his cell from his jeans, scrolling through the contacts. Of course, he gets a busy signal. Cas still on the phone with the radio station.

“Stupid—” he says to himself, ready to hang up, when there's a beep on the line, and Cas speaks.

“Dean?”

He sounds the same as ever, and for a brief moment, Dean wonders if maybe he imagined the whole thing. If his exhaustion and misery had met the beer-and-a-half he just drank and decided to ditch reality for the rest of the night.

“Hello? Dean? Are you there?”

“Why didn't you call me?” he asks.

“What? When?”

“Ever. The last couple of months. You never called me.”

“You didn't call me, either,” Cas counters, and Dean has to admit he has a point, but he had a good reason.

“I'm poison,” he says, and Cas takes a steadying breath.

Dean can tell he's forcing himself not to argue, and he's grateful for that.

“What's going on, Dean?”

“Nothing.”

“You sound strange.”

“I feel strange,” he admits, heart pounding fiercely in his chest, “kinda like I'm about to crawl outta my skin, if we're being completely honest.”

“Did something attack you?”

“No, I'm... just... I'm freaking out a little bit. Where are you?”

“I'm back in Rexford. Some angels found me—friendly ones,” he amends quickly, “but we needed somewhere to lay low, and I know this town well.”

“You could have come home.”

“Home?” Castiel asks, and Dean hates that he seems genuinely confused by it.

“The bunker, Cas.”

“With seven angels?”

“With twenty. Fuck. A hundred,” he says, “however many, so long as you're there. I miss you, too, you know. I think of you, too.”

Dean says it before he can stop himself, and there's a long pause on the other end of the line.

“Dean,” Cas says quietly, “where are you?”

“Idaho. Just outside Coeur d'Alene.”

“Did you hear—”

“Yeah, I heard.”

“I'm s—”

“Cas, I swear if you fucking _apologize_ to me right now I'm going to reach through this phone and strangle you.”

“Okay.”

Dean takes in a breath.

“So,” he says again, “have you—how many times have you called the—“

“Eight,” Cas replies, “maybe nine. I'm not sure.”

“What did you say the other times?”

“I don't—“

“Just, going by what the DJ said, it kind of... I mean, you know why people normally call those shows, right?” he asks, knowing already but needing to hear it confirmed, “what kind of love they're meant for, right?”

“Yes,” Cas says, “I do.”

“You do.”

“Yes,” he repeats.

“Good. Good, that's... good. Okay.”

“Dean?”

Dean lets out a long breath, staring down at his free hand where it clenches and unclenches against his thigh, and makes a decision.

“I'm... it's the same,” he says finally, and shakes his head at how horrible he is at this, “for me. It's the same kind that I, uh... So, you know, there's that. If you were wondering.”

“I know.”

“What do you mean, you know?”

“I'm an angel, Dean,” he says, and he sounds like he's smiling, “I've always known.”

“Why didn't you—”

“You were never comfortable with how you felt about me. I didn't want to put you in a position where you felt cornered.”

“You're too good for me,” Dean tells him.

“Impossible. You're the best man I've ever known.”

Dean doesn't quite know what to say to that, so he says nothing—just rubs his hand over his face and drags in an unsteady breath.

“Are you alright?” Cas asks hesitantly, and Dean doesn't even think before he answers.

“Yeah.”

“Now what?”

“Now...”

Looking at himself in the rearview mirror, Dean sees smiling eyes, and it's like looking at a stranger. The answer is obvious in the end.

“Now, I'm gonna come to Rexford,” he says simply, turning the key, “and we're making up for lost time.”


End file.
